


way, haul way, we'll haul for better weather...

by Kt_fairy



Series: by land or by sea [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Sexual Tension, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Stress, dundy suffers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:35:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22101154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy
Summary: Henry took comfort in the knowledge that Erebus was close, her masts sitting clear of the pressure ridges all about them. As soon as they reached her the damned sting of freezing cold across his cheeks would be banished, and his chest could see about not being crushed by the hauling harness that was pressing in to the week’s worth of a bruise that it had given him. It hurt like the blazes, but it hurt the men of his sledge party also, to the extent that they had stopped their singing of hauling songs or chatter, so Henry simply leaned into the hurt and kept on keeping on.ORFitzconte no one asked for but I did it anyway, pt 2
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier & Commander James Fitzjames, Commander James Fitzjames/Lt Henry T. D. Le Vesconte
Series: by land or by sea [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1590799
Comments: 16
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a part two to my Fitzconte Fic That No-one Asked For But I Did Anyway. There was always a plan for it to expand (because I think we all need more Dundy in our lives), and as I had a cold over Christmas and nothing to better to do, I've done it. So there!
> 
> You do need to read the first one for this one to make sense in places, so feel free to remind yourself. 
> 
> Thank's yet again to MsKingBean89 for enabling, encouraging, fixing my terrible grammaring, and being a frightfully decent chap all around! 
> 
> Tags will update with chapters.

What was a bruise to a sailor. What were several. Indeed, what was a lost arm or a leg! Thoroughly beaten up bunch the lot of them.

Still, one had to make the most of it for glory and dear old England and all that. 

Henry took comfort in the knowledge that _Erebus_ was close, her masts sitting clear of the pressure ridges all about them. As soon as they reached her the damned sting of freezing cold across his cheeks would be banished, and his chest could see about not being crushed by the hauling harness that was pressing in to the week’s worth of a bruise that it had given him. It hurt like the blazes, but it hurt the men of his sledge party also, to the extent that they had stopped their singing of hauling songs or chatter, so Henry simply leaned into the hurt and kept on keeping on.

(He had gathered a few nicer bruises in his time too, gained from nicer activities than hauling boats looking for leads, but none since his and James’ little romp two First Sunrises past. He had borne ten points of pleasant soreness on his arms where James had gripped him, and on some occasions Henry had pressed his fingers against them so as to not let the cold and the dark and the loneliness of this terribly dull place get to him.)

Leads westwards had come up empty, but it was no mind, the only tragedy that would cause would be the loss of any money James may have bet on him finding open water. Henry was also taking care to make the foul bow-wow mutton some of their supplies contained seem like it was no mind either, for the men's sake. Game would return with the warmth, and no matter what Graham or Crozier said, it was no great difficulty to shoot a great fat seal once it was out of its hole.

“I say, lads. We shall have a fine feed when we get back!" Henry called to his men, glancing over his shoulder as far as he dare lest he unbalance himself. "Who do you think will have discovered the leads? Hodgson?”

“No!” was cried back at him with great gusto, and yet sounded horribly flat. Most loud sounds did out here. Graham had said that it was something to do with the ice in the air, which made some form of sense Henry supposed.

“What about our fine Lieutenant Gore?” 

" _Yes_!" was chorused, one excitable fellow shouting out ' _Erebus'_ and Henry laughed.

"Erebus indeed!" Henry agreed. "One final push, men. Her masts are in sight, and we shall make it in time for tea - or rather grogg - and fine cakes, eh?"

A ripple of amusement went around behind him, and they fell silent again, the only sounds the endless din of the snow crunching beneath their boots and the sharp breathing of the men leaning into their ropes. The sounds were as good as silence, so used to them was Henry after twelve days of hearing little else, and he soon became lost in the press forward, of placing one sure foot before the other, feeling rather like one of the little clockwork curiosities his grandfather used to make shuffle up and down the mantelpiece to entertain the children. Except not dressed quite as jolly; slops were such awful drab things.

The monotony was broken by a English voices on the breeze from up head. Henry did not stop hauling as it fair felt like dying to get the boat going again once it had stopped, instead sending Private Reed forward to find out what was happening.

"Sir, sir, sir, sir!" Reed's voice was made uneven by his stumbling footfall on the snow as he hurried back, and Henry looked up to see _Erebus'_ own Corporal Paterson following him close behind.

If the presence of marines on the ice was not enough cause for Henry to allow himself the mild alarm that officers were permitted, then it was the clear strain on the corporal's face as he skidded to a halt with a little more gaze than the sledge party staggered to a stop.

"Oh sir, is'a great relief to see ye," the Scotsman panted.

"I say, an honour guard! I have only been gone a week," Henry gasped as he pulled off his snow glasses, his lungs burning from the cold air he was gulping in, for some reason his mind flitting to Graham's robustness in the face of all this ill weather. "What is the scuttlebutt, corporal?"

It was only when Paterson stepped close and angled himself away from the men that Henry noticed the silence from both ships, the lack of men on the ice or moving about on the decks "It is ill news sir," Paterson said in the truely dire way that only the Scots could manage.

Henry glanced back at his men who were either looking on curiously or standing around impatient to finish the last stretch back to the ships, then turned into Paterson. "Tell me it now, would you."

"Lieutenant Gore is dead, sir."

  
  


* ***** *

  
  


James told him the pieced-together truth of what had happened over a stiff drink or two. Henry sat with his head in his hands so he did not have to look at the neat little pile Graham’s possessions laying in the middle of the wardroom table, things that would not be packed up to bring home to his family; a few sheets of foolscap, his ink and dip pen, some sheet music that Henry could not read, the half empty box of cigars’ that Graham had always jokingly claimed Henry smoked the most of. There had been a scarf, a spare gifted by a niece of some sort, that Fairholme had been wearing when Henry had arrived, pink nosed and bright eyed with grief.

Henry was not especially close to Graham. That is to say he had not known him before the expedition like James did - or had, rather - but Graham had been Henry’s direct superior, and he had spent more time in his company than with James these past two years. Henry found himself utterly baffled by the thought of no longer having Graham’s pleasant, decent company or competent guidance. In fact he half expected Graham to stroll in, covered in snow and nursing a wound or two, accepting everyone’s joy at his appearance with his usual modesty.

There was not even a body to bury. All sailors got to be buried, at land or at sea, and the thought of Graham, who was so decent and kind, doomed to lay uncared for so far from home made Henry sick to his stomach.

He sat up, eyes trailing over the far wall, before letting them fall to James. The lamplight that usually brought out every finely made thing about him was instead making him look years older than he was, the pinched set of his mouth giving him such an aspect of anger that he made Henry feel even more like he had missed the last rung on a ladder.

“Crozier only cared about the damned leads of course,” James muttered, pressing his balled up fists into the edge of the table, eyes resting on the place where Graham usually sat. “I know they are of importance, of course I do, but he… he would put so much store in Graham’s experience, and yet when we spoke to those on Graham’s sledge party he asked not one question about what happened to him. Only the leads, as if that were all that mattered when a man had died. He no doubt takes this as proof of all our stupidity, and his…”

”Do not be unpleasant, Jas,” Henry cut in sharply. “You know that I cannot abide it when you morb, and especially at a time like this.” 

Graham would want them looking for leads and a fast way from this place, he would not want them sitting about worrying over his fate and snarling at one another. He was - he _had been_ practical, and his past experiences with George Back had him understanding Crozier’s sometimes harsh practicality in ways that bewildered Henry’s more warm weather sensibilities.

“I am sorry Dundy,” James sounded more chastened than any commander Henry had ever met before, his expression smoothing as he looked over Henry. “The men of Graham’s party were half frantic. Tthey were sure the bear had followed them to the ship, and you were out there with no idea that you might be in peril! And here I sat, powerless to do anything except send more men out there to look for a sign of you. Which I am sure they were not pleased about… “

“I should say.”

“I was worried for you, Dundy,” James muttered, pressing his fists hard into the table edge. “And agitated by Graham and that Inuit man, and then Crozier… but you have only just heard, while we have all been…” James sighed heavily, then continued in a quiet voice. “Please forgive me.”

“You need not ask, old boy,” Henry sighed. He was horribly unfooted, and teetering on the edge of a thick bout of sadness, but there was no numbing shock left for James. Anger had taken its place; at Crozier, and himself, and no doubt also at Sir John for preventing him from taking out that shore bound party, although he would never admit to that. James had never been one to send a man to do something he was capable of doing. He was a 'man of action' one might say if one read too many magazines, and had found himself promoted into a position that demanded he remain safe. 

Which, a selfish part of Henry thought, was no bad thing after what had happened at the shoreline.

Henry looked at the sparse collection of Graham’s things, the great life of a good man reduced to a sea chest stored in the hold and a scatter of belongings on a well used table, and was struck by the thoroughly ghoulish thought that all of James' variety and intelligence, his good humour and lovliness might also be reduced to such paltry things one day.

He shook himself to be rid of it, looking to James who was regarding the leftovers of Graham's life as if they might rise up and rail at him like one of Mr Dickens ghosts.

Henry lay his arm across the table, keeping his expression open when James blinked at his hand and then at Henry before glancing at the door. He was right of course, this was too much of a risk even with the stillness of shock that had fallen over the ship, but James still reached out to take his hand anyway. 

"He would hate anyone to be so low. No doubt remind us all that he is with the Almighty and that we should not mourn so," James mused. "Would remind me of my duty to find a way through, so _this_ was not in vain."

"And no doubt complain that I shall smoke the rest of his cigars."

“That most of all, yes,” James said with a roll of his eyes, a hint of a smile quirking his mouth as he squeezed Henry's fingers. 

  
  


* ***** *

  
  


Henry had to take on the duties of a first lieutenant on top of some of his old ones, the rest being taken by Fairholme who had youth on his side as well as not being jiggered out from hauling a boat all over the place.

He had little thought for anything but his next task, only allowing himself to think of getting meals inside of him, lifting James’ (and therefore the whole wardroom’s) spirits at least once a day, and sleeping when he could. He worked hard, they all did, and things began to return to some semblance of normality. Grief could only ever be of the moment on a ship, as even when iced in there were far too many things to do, and for those few days after Graham died he and James were often awake for at least two hours after Sir John would tell them to go to sleep, the acrid smoke from the guttering lamps making their eyes burn as they made sure they finished the days work. 

“Damn it all,” Henry whispered to himself, scrubbing at his eyes that were now burning even in the clear, dark air of his cabin. 

Graham’s death had been terrible, every one of the five deaths on this expedition had been terrible. He had been in war, in China, where disease and violence had ravaged far more men than this, but that was a _war_ , not discovery which was hard going but never with such a death toll. And now Sergeant Bryant was in the dead room with his head in a bag, and Sir John… 

Henry had been half way down the ice ramp when he had realised what Sergeant Tozer and Private Heather of _Terror_ bad been carrying between them across the ice, and he still had no idea what to do with that ridiculous horror. 

James had been as distressed as Henry had ever seen him when he had finally come back to _Erebus_ , and despite becoming agitated at Crozier’s order to rob _Erebus_ of Fairholme on top of everything, he had not lost his composure. Oh he had buried his head into Henry’s shoulder once they had been left alone, allowing Henry to place a hand on his back, but he did not weep, only breathing deeply until the trembles running through him had stilled to nothing. 

James’ enforced self-possession seemed to pull the crew up by their bootstraps also. The languishing dejection that had, understandably, followed on the coat tails of Sir John’s death had become appropriate solemnity by the time they had buried Sir John’s leg; an event made farcical by Crozier’s drunken stumble over Sir John’s words for Graham. Henry was sure it had been bad form of him to stop listening half was through, instead taking the minutes where nothing was demanded of him but silence to let his overwrought mind pause a moment. To be still. To let the past few days - _days!_ \- settle as much as they may.

Henry leant on his bunk, heaviness blanketing him fully. How could he resolve himself to these constant losses, how could they face another winter in this place with only he and James in charge of _Erebus_. This was not the _Clio_ , and certainly not the Persian gulf, and Henry felt that he would be found wanting sooner rather than later, all his lack of sharpness and uninspiring nature laid bare, leaving even more on James’ shoulders. 

A knock broke his discomposure, and the door had opened and closed before Henry had even called for James to enter. It could only be James, for who else was left to wander into his cabin at will?

The playfulness that had always been there between them failed to show itself as they stood opposite one another in the creaking cold, and Henry felt a sense of desolation fill the silence that followed James’ entrance. It did not last long, James’ purposeful stride across the small berth surprising Henry enough that he jolted, giving him the only un-dulled feeling he had felt since he had spotted _Erebus’_ sails barely a week ago.

He looked up at James, lit only by the dull light coming in from his skylight, and wished desperately that he had come to strike Henry about the head with a pillow instead of whatever great seriousness he had come to speak to him of. 

“I am sorry you have to carry so much responsibility and weight of work now,” James spoke quietly as if they were not surrounded by empty cabins, laying a hand on Henry’s arm. 

“No more than you, James, good lord. It is no matter though, we shall get through it,” Henry heard himself saying, everything feeling so fragile that he dare not take James’ hand. “I know we will.” 

James nodded, his expression shifting as if he had needed desperately to hear Henry say that, and Henry felt lightened to know that he had been of some use in all this. “You have always been a bolster to me, Dundy. And I will do my best to bolster you as we go on.”

Henry had never thought of himself ever truly being in need of such things in any serious way. Any trepidation he had felt in a moment had always been a passing thing, as what caused the fear was always the more pressing matter, and afterwards he never gave it much thought as all was done with. 

This was no passing battle or squall, this was a situation that was lingering, and becoming worse as it did, the weight of it all growing every time Henry thought about it. It might be a frightfully simple way of thinking, and he hoped it came from a practical view rather than a very inopportune romantic one, but he should feel rather less secure and confident if James' secure, competent presence were not here.

“No try about it, James. Comes naturally,” Henry clenched his hands, wanting to reach up and tuck James’ hair behind his ear but restraining himself. All was too serious for gentleness now, their responsibilities too great for any distraction, no matter how small or tender or greatly desired. “Follow you anywhere gladly, you know that.”

James gnawed on his bottom lip as something bleak passed through his dark eyes. Henry made to speak, to ask what that look was for, when James squeezed his arm as he swayed into him then away again.“I know that I cannot take comfort in an embrace, or even a kiss. But know that I would.” 

“Do not worry any, Jas,” Henry said, making a point of giving James his most dashing smile. “I’ll put it on your tab.”


	2. Chapter 2

“... and then, when the poor fellow was thoroughly mortified, enraged, and covered in port wine dregs, this fellow steps back, throws on a Lieutenant’s coat, ruffles his hair, and turns out to be _Jas_!” Henry told the table, bringing laughs that were not quite as merry as they had once been, but with things as they were a smile was still a smile. “We knew it was him all along of course, he had let us in on it, but Charlewood was utterly fooled!”

“What a thing! Not recognised at all,” Hodgson, who was always pleasantly easy to entertain, laughed into his drink, Little smiling as wide as he ever did.

“Shall we expect another fine disguise from you at Carnivale, Captain?” Irving asked with far more enthusiasm than Henry expected from such a very _devout_ man when speaking of a benjo, a man who had such dour opinions on any sort of fun or jape and seemed incapable of any sort of jolly conversation.

“I have my eye on one or two,” James said easily, foot tapping the air idly where he had his long legs crossed at an angle to the table. 

For a good while after Sir John had died there had been no officers' dinners, only James going to _Terror_ once a week for suppers with Crozier that often had him returning in a prickly mood, drunk, or both. With Crozier now sobering up (which sounded a thoroughly horrid business) James had reinstated them, if only to give everyone some much needed distraction from, well, _everything._

“I thought of suggesting each crew have its own theme,” Hodgson put in, Little trying his best not to look pained. “But I thought that might spoil some of the men’s fun if they were forced into it.”

“We _are_ giving them a respite from some strictness for a night,” James agreed diplomatically.

“We could coordinate Jas, no doubt!”

“Might that not be a tad too twee, Henry?”

“Depends on the matching, I would say,” Irving put in carefully.

James turned towards Henry, seeming to forget about the others for a moment. “Who will you be?”

“Well, what did you have your eye on?”

James shifted in what was almost a shrug. "The frock for Juliet went over quite well at Beechey.”

“Hear, hear. Bring some of the finest ladies fashion back to the arctic,” Hodgson said merrily, and James smiled cordially at him. 

“I dare not call it the finest fashion, but it made the men merry last time to see some of us playing at being saucy ladies.”

Henry caught the way Irving balked slightly at that, and was shooting him a frown when Little spoke up. “You might be Henry V, Henry. There is the costume Mr Gibson made last year for the play.”

“Capital idea! Eh, Dundy,” James declared, smacking Henry on the arm with the back of his hand. 

It hurt, but Henry did not flinch. He dare not.

Bruises were starting to reappear. The skin at his shoulder, just where a hauling rope might sit, was tender again, and on his arms there were ten sore spots that would no doubt match where James had grasped at him, what, two years ago, while Henry had been frigging him. Every itch and irritation gave him pause now, an uneven set collar having him peer into the looking glass to check that every nip or kiss or shaving nick his neck had ever received were not about to flare up again, which would be just his luck.

“Will you be _ma belle Katherine?_ ” Henry asked smoothly instead. “ _Dost thou understand thus much English? Canst thou love me,_ Jas?"

" _I cannot tell,_ ” James quoted back with a drollness that was not quite the tone expected of a captain, but the Shakespearean repartee got the round of laughter such wit always did in wardrooms.

Henry sent a genial look around the table and turned his attention to eating the (vile) pickled cabbage they were given to keep them in ascorbic health. Supposedly. 

He was well aware of what the reappearance of these marks meant. All sailors knew the symptoms. His were faint though, the mildest he thought there could be. His teeth were all sound in his head, and his eyes still functioned as well as they ever had, and his missing toes ached sometimes, but the neat sutures remained closed. 

Maybe it was that, the shock of losing his toes and having to readjust his walk had taken it out of him. He was no physician, but it sounded about right, and if he ate more vile pickled things than not (or than biscuits) then all would be well. 

He glanced at James who had tilted his head just so while he listened to something Little was saying to him. Only tiredness marred him, the same one that affected them all in the dark and the cold, heightened by his ever mounting responsibilities that he bore with the same dignity he did all things. Henry looked away unless he began to get all moony eyed before desert was even served, and swallowed his sour mouthful.

  
  


* ***** *

  
  


The benjo had turned into an utter disaster in the truest sense of the word. There had been no _faux pas_ except that of self immolation, and any further comment Henry might have was in far too poor taste to be uttered even once.

A rum time had been had by all, suffice to say, and it looked like it would be continuing for a while yet.

“It is not your fault,” Henry said in the days following, once the awful smell of ash and cooking had finally been scrubbed from men and ships alike, standing at James’ tense shoulder as they looked at the nothingness outside of _Erebus’_ windows.

“I know,” James replied, hands fidgeting nervously with the cuff of his gansey all the same. 

“There is knowing, James, and then there is believing.” Henry could not quite manage any lightness as he looked at James, trying not the see the smear of blood at his hairline. 

He had almost pointed it out when he had first seen it, the idea of this happening to _James_ so ridiculous that he had thought it a spot of ink or a drop of tarry water or anything other than what it was. James had survived bouts of malaria and cholera and being shot clear through his body, he could not be so affected when Henry was only bruising. The cause of the blood was simply impossible to countenance until it had became too apparent to ignore.

Henry knew better that to voice a concern. The second in command could not be suffering from this malady, not when the first was still afflicted by tremors and weaknesses after drying out, not when every man knew about the long, long walk that was ahead of them. In such tight times a captain was expected to be brave and active, as strong as the oaks of old England and all that, the men _expected it_. No matter how capable Henry or Little or any of them might be, to see all three captains laid low was a sign so ill most sailors would not bare it. So ill, in fact, that Henry determined that he _would_ bear it.

So Henry did not act, did not ask, as his duty was not to see, even if the knowledge kept him awake at night and robbed him of his easy humour just when it was needed most. James had barely smiled since Carnivale, and Henry, for the first time in their friendship, was at a loss to help, the very helplessness of their situation pressing in around him as fast as the ice at the hull.

He looked away, towards Jacko’s old empty cage, and then back out into oblivion. 

“Do not fear, Dundy,” James spoke suddenly, still facing forward as he reached out to lay his hand over Henry’s that were tucked into the small of his back. It was an unexpected action, one that might even be called unwise with the frequency of those coming in and out of the Great Cabin at this time of day (even though Henry had it on good authority that Bridgens would not raise a single eyebrow to find his officers clasping hands) but Henry would have let their fingers slide together even if Lord Nelson himself had been watching.

“I? Never Jas, you know that.”

James barely smiled. “I will get you home. You will survive this, I promise.”

Henry let James’ fingers go, James’ left arm falling limpy to his side as Henry turned to him. He wanted to demand an explanation for the usage of ‘you’ in that promise instead of ‘us’ or indeed ‘we’. In all honestly he was a little outraged by it, but there was the smart rap of a steward's knuckles against the door and Henry was mindful of his teeth as he snapped his mouth shut. 

“Captain Crozier is aboard, sirs.”

"Thank you Bridgens," James said as he took a half step away from Henry and towards the table, tugging at his waistcoat in that unconscious way of his as Crozier stomped into the room.

He had emerged from that fiery ruin out on the ice as the sort of captain that Graham had always maintained he was. He was capable, hard working, and no longer morbed about, which made vast improvements to both his conversation and general manner. So much so that Henry could almost say that he might one day come to like the man.

"Gentlemen, good morning."

"Good morning, Francis."

"Good morning sir, I take it your walk was suitably brisk?"

"Indeed it was Henry," Crozier said pleasantly. "I dare say it will be balmy out soon."

"Time to air out the summer weight clothing, I dare say." 

James smiled at that, Crozier looking indulgently amused, and Henry felt horribly foolish, prattling on when James and Crozier were about to discuss things that could save lives.

"One day I hope we will have forgotten the weight of wool and slops." Crozier gave James an earnest look as he placed those journals and books under his arm down onto the table, then, “When we all make our way home,” as if he knew the desolate mood James was tilting into.

Henry looked to James also, noting how ease was creeping back into his manner as he shifted on his feet and nodded, once, to Crozier. Henry looked forward again, dipping his head to them both as he stepped away. "I will to my duties, gentlemen."

There was no jealousy on Henry’s part - he rather thought he lacked any of the fire to feel that particular emotion. It was right that those of an equal rank should find support and close accord in one another. That a commander and his second (or indeed third) should be as a crutch to the other, to hold up weight of command between them. That James should lean on a mere second lieutenant acting int he role of a first was not the way of the Navy, and even so, no matter how willing Henry was to bear the weight he was not entirely sure that he was up to this task. 

Pleasant nature and easy humour, and a wholly temperate temper - that was Henry. Oh, he could calculate the fall of shot, the rate of knots a ship was travelling, and all sorts of magnetic readings and the like as easy as anything. He had even dashed about in a battle or two. But all that was expected of every one of the officers that sailed beneath the White Ensign, and, so, Henry was content in his un-remarkable nature. Inordinately so when it had been enough to earn James’ affection and friendship in warmer weather and easier times. 

At least James was no longer alone in all this, carrying the fate of everyone while Crozier soaked up whiskey and then suffered the price for it. That is what mattered, Henry told himself as he hurried up the ladder and onto the covered deck, letting the frozen air clear the fog in his head as he strode about checking all was in order. The sun was low slung on the horizon, making the sky glow grey rather than provide any real light to do anything by. Which was rather ungracious of it, Henry thought, as it still lit up the sharp tangle of towering pressure ridges well enough to make them seem frightfully impassable. 

“Almost light enough to read by, sir,” one of the men, too well bundled up against the cold to recognise at once, commented after tugging his forelock in Henry’s direction. 

“If this is deemed light enough we shall all return home with squints, Lloyd,” Henry returned, satisfied by the shoulder shake of amusement that he had identified the man correctly.

He smiled as he passed by the men, the look slipping when his eyes found the terrible landscape once more. Their only choice was to pass through all that, Henry thought as he turned his gaze away, rolling out his bruised shoulder. Crozier and James would see to it that they would, he knew the latter to be so full of bloody minded perseverance that he would do it, and had no choice but to trust the former was enough of the man he had (by all accounts) once been to see it done. 

James trusted Crozier, his burdens were lifted by his presence and command, which was more than enough for Henry to get getting on with. 

* ***** *

  
  


Henry’s shoulder hurt like the devil himself was stabbing its claws into him. He had hauled the boats through the ice without complaint, as was his duty, but he felt an awful lot like complaining now as his stride slipped once again on the loose ground, the shingles crunching in a disconcertingly hollow way under his feet.

He would break his damned ankle before Fairholme turned up, and Henry would never hear the end of it if he had to be carried back to civilisation.

“Twice damned place” Henry muttered under his breath, kicking a sizeable rock. “ _J'espère que quelqu'un fait pousser des fleurs ici,_ force some bloody cheer onto it.”

Wide eyed men watched him pass in heavy silence, sailors unsettled away from their ships and becoming rather unsettling themselves. Henry ducked into the collar of his slops as he stepped onto one of the main walkways between the tents, feeling momentarily mollified by letting his loud footfall ring out in this un-echoing place. 

“I thought I heard your graceful step,” James rasped when Henry ducked into his tent, almost frightening the life out him. 

“If I had known I were to have a caller I would have been better prepared. What on earth are you doing?,” Henry dropped his pack onto the ground, then his cap, then waved a finger at James who was sitting awkwardly on Henry’s low cot. “You shall not find an atom of chocolate in this whole tent.”

“Drat,” James smiled, then quickly pulled his lips down over his gums. 

He had struggled on the walk to Terror Camp. Henry would dare say that few had noticed, too frightened by the ice and the spectre of that bear to pay much mind to anything apart from getting to land, but he had. James was far from an invalid, but that boundless dash and energy of his was gone; his encouraging words to the men stumbled and sometimes tripped out of him, and his deep (if vaguely tuneless) singing voice cracking when he had the breath to encourage the men’s cautious hauling songs. 

Crozier had noticed too, offering discreet helping hands or issuing orders that kept James out of harness. Henry knew it because they had shared a look that, on his end at least, felt almost as weighty as the ones Crozier and James had been sharing for over a month now, a communication made easy by mutual concern.

James’ eyes were fading, dark depths struggling sometimes to focus on things further away than the length of a tent, and he had become dreadfully thin too. He was not quite in such a state that he was no longer terribly handsome, but then Henry had always been rather taken with him.

He went to perch on the edge of his cot, leaning his elbows on his knees as he let his thigh press against James’ for just a moment. “Jopson might get you some, he has the rank to order it now,” Henry mused, and James shook his head. “Or we could raid Mr Arthur’s store ourselves.”

“I do not think I am quite light enough on my feet to raid anything,” James admitted.

“You would do the distracting,” Henry straightened, hand on his hip as he played at looking at a thing on a horizon. “Be a fine imposing captain while I sneak in.”

James shook his head a little ruefully, adjusting his left arm so it sat close to his ribs. Henry looked at it a moment, knowing enough of what ailed them all to guess at what horrors could be lingering under his many layers, then looked up at his face. “I say, if you visited Goodsir for bandages he might prescribe you some.”

“He has more important patients to look to.”

“More important than a captain? I think not.”

“I am one of many, all of whom need to reach home,” James stated, noble even when sat in a small, dim tent on some forsaken land. “As do you, have you seen the doctor about your shoulder?”

“Pah, nothing that won’t keep until Fairholme arrives. More than my life would be worth to be wrapped up in bandages after he has walked hundreds of miles across country there and back to save me,” Henry declared, making a point of not touching his shoulder when he turned a smile on James. “Jas?” he asked when he found his expression pinched and distant, concern pulling his own face into a frown when James blinked and then summoned up a shadow of a smile for him.

“Indeed, old boy,” James agreed, a distance still surrounding him as he grasped Henry’s upper arm.

Henry hissed without thinking, the pain brighter than he ever remembered it being, and then found himself being grasped and rousted about so suddenly that he almost toppled off the end of his small cot. “James!” he protested, too alarmed for a moment to realise that he was being dragged out of his coat. 

He caught James’ hands tightly, loosening his grip when he felt how thin the skin was that lay over the fine bones of his fingers. “Good lord James, what is all this?”

“Damn you Henry, show me your shoulder,” he barked it like an order, but his eyes were wild. 

“It is bruised from hauling, you know this.”

“Hauling when?” he demanded, and Henry remained silent. “And your arm?”

“I… it’s only bruises Jas, from the past few years,” he said discreetly. “Nothing I cannot bear.”

James gasped in a breath that cut the air with its sharpness, and Henry was horrified to see wetness begin to gleam in large, clear eyes. “I have killed you,” James breathed.

“Beg pardon?”

“I brought you here. I was selfish and brought you carelessly into danger. I was selfish and weak and I have killed you.”

He had wept for neither Graham nor Sir John, nor after Carnivale, nor indeed on any occasion over the years where Henry had seen him handed a black edged envelope. But here, now, for Lieutenant Le Vesconte R.N, quick tears broke free and ran down the lines of his face. 

Henry could only stare, the whole damned world forgotten when James’ breath hitched, wet and thick, in his throat. “Oh _God_.”

“No. No. James… “ Henry was utterly lost for words, and let his mouth flap about in the hope something heartening would emerge. “Heart of oak, James. Heart of oak, eh? That's us Navy men. A steady and even keel, James. Come now.”

“ _Dundy…_ “

“That will see us all through, steady and even keel. No need to despair if we keep that." 

James shook his head. "There are two captains in this camp, Crozier…" 

"You must keep steady,” Henry said sternly, changing his grip on James’ hands so they were cradled in his like the clasp of delicate lovers. “You must not lose hope James, for what shall become of me then?” he said gently, desperate enough in this moment that he would bribe, cajole, even beg to rid James of this not so sudden despair. “We promised one another when Sir John died. I shall bolster you, and you shall bolster me. No more of this death business, we are both alive still. What could ever stop such bricky young men as us, eh? Fairholme will come… " 

“We found his sledge on the way to this place,” James said flatly, even as he took in a great shaking breath. “He had been laying dead twelve miles from us, all this time.”

Henry closed his eyes, familiar enough with that creatures work now to be able to picture what might have been done to those men. He brought James’ hands to his face, resting them against his cheek a moment while he felt out James’ pulse drumming rapidly against the delicate skin inside of his wrist.

"Well then, the Inuit will help,” Henry heard himself say in a voice faint. He sat up to look James in the eye, tugging the stained cuff of his shirt down far enough to wipe gracelessly at James’ face. “I am here because I would be nowhere else, James. Rather picturesque and florid of me I know, but it is the truth. I came willingly, and do not regret it for one second. Anyway, I am not dead yet am I!” He declared with false brightness. “What is a bit of scurvy to a sailor? The further south we go the more game and greenery will appear, you clever fellows can talk to the locals in their dialect. We will get out of this, by God."

"Do you really think so,” James breathed, as if Henry’s opinion held more weight than any of the Arctic veterans amongst them. 

“Of course,” he said, because what else was there to say. What else could he do? He could come up with no greater plan than what was already possible, and he could not move either the heaven or the earth, despite what the Admiralty thought of it’s officers.

What would they think of them now, being beaten down by the whims of nature and dependant on the natives to survive, not only becoming desperate but allowing it to show so demonstratively. Already mourning one another like women gathered about a deathbed. 

It was no weakness to weep, Henry thought as James squeezed his hands tightly before pressing them back into his lap, watching him pull each frayed part of himself back together with expert skill. Only, if Henry wept for James he knew he might never stop.

* ***** *

There was nothing to be done about Fairholme or those men. Graham had left them all stunned, Sir John fair poleaxed, and now it had come to the point where eight dead men had Henry feeling not a great deal of anything. It was rather selfish to only think of oneself in the face of that, but when those dead had been ones hope of survival rescue there was little else for it.

Henry sighed, finding himself being watched by those same blank eyed men as he strode about between the tents. Did he give off an air of despair? Could they see the marks of tears on him? Was he shaking from the shock of seeing James so low, of the heartache it had brought?

He whistled for Neptune. The animals was _Terror's_ but it had always liked he and James well enough, and at times like this sometimes only the pleasant, contented company of a dog could help.

He whistled again when no sound of large paws on the shingle sounded, and that was when Henry remembered that the beast had gone missing.

Health, God, and rescue had already abandoned them, so why not the damned dog!

He had a few seconds where he wished to throw himself on to the ground and scream and protest like some children were wont to do. It was certainly as futile as anything else he might do until _esquimaux_ were found who would be gracious enough to help all these interlopers cluttering up the place.

It was perhaps a spot of bad luck that one of the parties ordered to go and look for game or Inuit happen to trudge past him then. Henry was in such a state that he gave them quite a fierce look, causing even Irving to dip his head to him like he were a Midshipman as all the men but one mumbled 'sirs' or tugged the forelock to him as they passed.

Henry had never been a strict officer, although he kept order just as duty and the Articles demanded, but he was still an officer, and his current mood was foul.

"That man there!" he called loudly enough that it echoed back off the tents and made everyone turn, apart from that one _Terror_. "I said, that man!"

For a moment Henry thought that the _Terror_ might not stop and confound his insolence, causing Henry's hand to be unduly forced, but the man eventually tilted his head and turned to face Henry. Watery blue eyes looked at him with far more boldness than he was used to from a crewman, but Henry did not falter, merely raising an eyebrow as he watched the man stride up to him.

"Sir," the man said shortly, almost impatiently, as he continued to stare up at Henry.

"Name?"

"Cornelius Hickey," the man said after a pause. "Terror, sir."

So this was the man who had been flogged. It appeared that it had done him little good, as he seemed determined to show disrespect. Unless he had taken some perverse liking to being lashed. 

"Well, Mr Hickey, you know well enough what you have failed to do."

Blue eyes widened slightly, the sharp face putting on such a chastened look than Henry was almost insulted. He was not the sharpest man on the expedition, but he was no fool. "Sir, I cannot say that I saw you there.” 

“I will not repeat lessons that have already been taught to you,” Henry snapped. “If you will not show due respect, or are not capable of _honesty_ , then what _I_ say will do you no good. So,” he turned to Lieutenant Irving. “This man has duty digging out latrines for the week.”

“But sir,” Hickey interrupted. “The _captain_ ordered for me to be part of this party.”

“Captain Fitzjames said no such thing to me,” Henry said, knowing the satisfaction he was getting out of being a bit of a bastard was rather bad form but finding it hard to care. “I say Mr Farr, see to this will you?”

“Aye sir.”

“Lieutenant, I did not see you,” Hickey protested, drawing the attention of a couple of marines who were strolling past, and Henry stepped in closer to him.

“Listen well Mr Hickey, to a thing I do not think has been said to you before. In the Royal Navy discipline is kept, and orders obeyed, because one day they may save lives. Maybe even yours. Now keep your peace, and when we reach home you can be as roisterous as you like.”

Hickey’s eyes blazed a moment, a fury in them that on any other day would have startled Henry. He seemed to contain himself, something simmering beneath the surface when he tipped his chin up in open defiance as he made a show of touching the front of his welsh wig with his knuckles.

Henry turned from him, giving Irving a dire look when he caught the self satisfied look on his face - it was his duty to keep the _Terrors_ in line, not Henry - and beckoned one of the marines over. “Sergeant?"

"Tozer sir.

"Sergeant Tozer, I have heard it said that you are the finest shot aboard _Terror_ , are you not?”

“It has been said, sir.”

“I am swapping you into this party. Any game you can shoot, or any _esquimaux_ you can make contact with are vital, do you understand?”

Tozer frowned but agreed all the same, coming to attention before scooping up the bag Hickey had dumped on the floor and following on behind Irving. 

Sergeant or no, why have the best shot kept in camp when game is what was needed to keep them all from falling to pieces. Everyone who had ever hunted should be out there, not bloody Irving and Hodgson. An animal was an animal surely, and to hunt it here should not be so much different from stalking stags in the highlands, or indeed pigs in the Basra marshes.

Henry looked around a moment, then up at the bland sky, then over to the tightly packed officers tents. “Damn it all to hell,” he muttered, and set off towards the armoury.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the story Dundy is telling at the beginning is the Gingham Umbrella prank from the Battersby Biography (I noted down pages 113-115 so I think that's where it is.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> take note of the updated tags!

It was raining. Thick tides rushing against the wooden walls loud enough that it felt like they were shaking, the drafts seeping through from places unseen making the tallow candles shiver and send swirling shadows along the floor and up to the ceiling. 

Yesterday there had been sunshine. Bright and brilliant and the most pleasantly warm thing Henry could ever remember, the grass cool under his palms and against the back of his neck when he had sprawled out upon it. 

James had been well enough to walk about (he had improved ten fold with the application of fresh vegetables, the blubbers and offals of animals the Inuit had helped them find, and other unmentionable things, keeping him just healthy enough to reach salvation), so Henry had offered him his arm as if they were about to stroll around St James’ Par and had escorted him out of Fort Resolution’s gates and up onto the little rise that overlooked the ice blue, clear running river. Native ladies were crouched about it seeing to their laundry, so having a splash about had been out of the question anyway, even if James had looked game. 

He wanted to sit in the sun, so that was what they had done, gazing at the green of the dazzling amount of trees that ran all up the sides of the mountains, the bubble of birdsong in the air, and the pleasing clouds glowing with yellow sunlight making their way leisurely across the warm blue sky. Henry had even seen a bee bumbling along, a quaint little miracle. 

Henry had brought some of the flat, firebaked honey cake that the women made twice a week, and they shared it happily, even if chewing was still a delicate process as they navigated missing teeth. 

"You know the first time I should like to eat when I get home," James mused around a mouthful.

"Far be it for me to pigeonhole you old boy, but may I guess a fine pudding?"

"You may, although it will not be correct," James had said, taking a moment to swallow. "A pear, I think."

"A pear?"

"Yes. I am sure if this moment were being recorded for posterity, the author would have me wishing for the beef of old England and port wine, but recent events have led me to simply wish for a pear. There was a pear tree in the garden where I grew up, you see… " he broke off another piece of the cake. "We shall miss the season for them utterly on the way home I suppose."

"Anything can be found if you have coin for it, and I shall have ample back pay by the time we wash up in England."

James had smiled at him then, gently and without any blood or pain, with the sun catching everything golden about him, and Henry had turned away like he had when they were on _Excellence,_ not wanting to get caught blushing because of Lieutenant Fitzjames’ charm. 

Then, on that hill in the wilds of Canada, Captain Fitzjames had reached out and gently tucked Henry’s hair (Bridgens had neatened them both up after their first wash, but lack of means meant their hair flopped about in whatever way it pleased) off his forehead, letting his fingertips trace the shell of his ear and the line of his cheekbone.

“Your wiles will not work on me, knave,” Henry had accused lightly, and James had smiled again. 

“You are the one who has brought me to a lonely meadow.”

“Oh?” Henry had looked about as if surprised by their solitude. “So I have, what a rascal I am.” 

In truth he had not thought once about rolling around on the grass, too taken by the pleasantness of being alive, of being able to look at trees and clouds and bees to even consider anything like that. Still, he had not minded when he had helped James to his feet a little while later and received a kiss for his troubles that was so chaste and sweet it had made his remaining toes tingle. 

But now it was raining, cold and damp. Not that Henry was complaining, the quaint log building the Hudson Bay Company man running the place had rapidly built for them was far more comfortable than filthy tents or the endless night sky, even if horribly cramped with so many men in it (there should be far more of them, but Henry could not think of that now). 

Henry had been peering out at the silver sheets of rain with some of the men after dinner, listening to Sergeant Tozer, Mr Peglar, and a few of the Scots argue about if it rained worse than this in Manchester, the Pacific ocean, or Inverness, while ignoring the spirited game of dice going on between Mr Blanky and Lieutenant Jopson that had the attention of the rest of the crews.

The noise of which he could still hear through the floor, now he was tucked up in his snug bedroll with James warm against his chest. The Sahtú wife of one of the Company men had hung up sheets in the largest upstairs room to afford the officers some privacy from one another, and made it very easy for James to sneak from his cot by the fire into Henry's drafty corner like a saucy innkeeper's daughter. 

It would also make it perfectly easy for him to slip into Crozier's berth. Not that James was fast of course, nor did Henry think him careless and inconstant, but the ease of their company, and what had become an instinctual understanding of one another's thoughts and wishes, simply meant that Henry would not be surprised if it manifested in such physical a manner.

He had visited doxies and had dalliances with other men when they were far apart from one another, as had James, so it would be no matter if it had, did, or if it would happen. If it made James happy, for that was all Henry had ever hoped to do after the first time he had made James throw back his head and laugh, then Henry would not mind. 

In fact, he minded about very little when he had James’ backside pressing into his groin, or his long fingers curling around Henry’s palm to slip it beneath his rough, Company shirt. James was here, alive and burning warm and no longer bleeding, his eyes as bright as they had always been when he twisted with only the faintest wince to look at Henry, the single candle set on the floor casting soft shadows over his face. 

“It is risky, I know.”

“We can be quiet.”

“And, well, I know I am all skin and bone and not what I was once…”

Henry tucked his face into James' hair as he ran his hands down the sharp planes of his stomach to curl over his hip. "You are still lovely, old boy. Never stopped."

James snorted inelegantly, pressing his head into the arm Henry had slipped beneath it to support James’ neck. “I do not need honeyed words Dundy, I was half rotten at… ”

“Good Christ James, if this is your sweet talk it’s a wonder you ever get anyone into bed with you,” Henry hissed, not needing that particular reminder at this moment. Or indeed ever. “I say you are still lovely, so there we are. Unless you wish to accuse me of flattering you into congress?”

“ _Oh all right,_ ” James huffed, the rest of his words lost as wind and rain battered the walls once more, the roof creaking as softly as a ship in calm waters. “Only. I may not be able to - that is, I am not sure I work fully.”

“We -” Henry started, wondering why James was pressing against him if that was the case. “We need not _do_ anything. Your company is always enough, you know.”

James smiled softly, reaching down into the furs to shove Henry’s own shirt tails up and his woolens down, letting a whisper of blissfully cool air in between them as he twisted his arm to palm at the head of Henry’s prick. “As is yours. Always,” he said conversationally. “But I would like to feel like I am… like my body is my own again? And not a failing vessel that’s only purpose is to struggle on,” he twisted his hand as he kissed Henry’s cheek. “That is not to say I am not very partial to you, especially when you looked rather handsome laid out on the grass yesterday, telling me all about flowers and clouds.”

Henry flushed, and ducked to catch James’ mouth in a kiss as he was pulled to hardness, and then forward so the tip of his prick nudged the back of James’ leg. That was all the encouragement Henry needed, and he batted James hand away, running his fingers over the top of the furs blanketing to to collect some of its natural grease before slipping his hand between James’ legs.

His skin was still as soft as any girls, and Henry indulged himself in groping his thighs as he spread what grease there was on his hand, glad that it was hot under the furs so that James’ thighs were sweating just enough so that he should not be chafed.

James shivered against him, shoving a shirt cuff into his mouth just in time to hide his startled noise when Henry took his hardening cock in hand and gave it a good rub. “And I am rather partial to having you bundled up in my bedroll.” Henry whispered against James’ ear, drunk on James' steady breathing and the strong heartbeat he could feel against his chest. 

The candlelight caught on James’ flushed cheek when he turned his face into Henry’s arm, reaching up to take his hand as he parted his thighs enough for Henry to slip between them.

James was hot, his skin smooth and slicked just enough to ease the way for Henry's slow thrusts. He placed his hand on James’ hip, angling him gradually until the head of Henry’s prick could drag over the delicate place behind James’ balls each time he pressed forward, startling stifled whimpers and gasps from him. 

The long fingers tangled through Henry’s flexed softly and James reached back for Henry’s hip, pulling him tighter against him as he began to clench his thighs in time with Henry’s movements. He grunted at the sensation, the noise loud between them, and Henry would he have frozen in mortification if his brain had at all been capable of it. 

He was used to having far more stamina than this (not too much though, he was no dandy) but years of only memory, and then not being in any state to feel any sort of stirring, was enough of an excuse for how quickly he felt the prickle of heat in his pelvis. 

James started when Henry spat into his hand, then started again when Henry wrapped it around his cock that was working perfectly well at the moment. He sighed, turning his head to catch Henry’s mouth in the briefest of kisses before he was burying his face into his arm once more, the cotton becoming damp with sweat and spit as he muffled his noises into Henry’s bicep. 

It was very inelegant, almost rutting, but it was enough to have Henry spilling between James’ thighs. He pressed his face into James’ hair, breathing in the smell of the simple soap from the Company stores as he worked out the tremors of his paroxysm in the space between James’ legs, moving his hand with a bit more skill now he had only James’ prick to concentrate on. 

James shook and gasped and twitched, seemed to have to fight his body every step to reach a sort of peak, letting out little pained noise that almost had Henry letting go of him at once, worried he had hurt him. 

“ _Christ_ ,” James finally panted, enough of a smile in his voice that Henry could persuade his thumping heart back down out of his throat. He withdrew from the pleasant clench of James’ body as well, flushing darker when he felt the movement of James rubbing his thighs together. 

He would have told James that he was being decadent and filthy, but he first had to spit out James’ hair that had become caught in his mouth, and them make sure he was all right. “Jas? Are you well?”

“Yes,” James panted. He shuffled onto his back, the candle light catching the sheen of sweat decorating the dip at the base of his long neck. “Very well. Only, that last furlong was rather a stretch. I feel wonderfully sated, and like I shall be bruised all over come morning.”

“Good lord, I hope not.”

James’ throat bobbed as he swallowed before smiling wide enough to show his missing premolars, reaching up to stroke through Henry’s once more neat grey whiskers. “It would be worth it.”

Henry kissed James’ palm, then his mouth. He only intended it to be a soft peck, but then James’ fingers where in his hair and his bare ankle was hooked around Henry’s, and he rather lost track of what he had been about to do as he ran his hand all the way down James’ flank to rest lightly on his backside.

“Cheeky,” James accused against his mouth, even as he made to tangle their legs together fully. 

“Don’t do that! You’ll get lather everywhere.”

James pulled away and raised an eyebrow at him. “Is it not all over me?”

“Oh _lord_ ,” Henry cried. “It’ll be all in my bed!”

James had the bad grace to snigger, rolling way from Henry as he crawled out to stand in his stockinged feet on the bare floor. “Laugh as you like, you minx, next time you want me it shall be in _your_ nice bed.”

“I thought you liked me in your bedroll,” James drawled, stretching languidly as if he had not been unsure of his loveliness not half an hour ago. 

Henry muttered to himself, looked around his tiny curtained off berth, then glared down at James. 

“I will fetch a wash basin,” James said, smoothing down his hair as he made to push himself upright. 

James had come to him in only a shirt, no woollens or linens beneath. They were alone in the room now, but it would be just typical that one or more of the others might turn up while James was off collecting a basin. Little would leave him be, but Hodgson would engage James in conversation while he was stood there with the obvious evidence of their activity on his bare legs, waiting to be noticed. Christ, Crozier might even be able to tell what they were up to at a glance! 

“No, I will be valiant and go,” Henry declared, peeking out of the curtain before hurrying off, feeling rather like a saucy innkeeper's daughter himself. 

* ***** *

  
  


There had been a great deal more walking once they had sat out the winter in Fort Resolution. Bored and cramped sailors snapped and snarled and got into mischiefs that kept the remaining officers on their toes, but at least, as Crozier said, they were well fed enough to be misbehaving.

They lost a few men on the long walk to the Hudson Bay. Not in that they died, in that they disappeared as sometimes sailors were wont to do when the weather was fine and the chances were good and they had nothing to return to at home. Canada in the spring was still cold, but life and plenty bloomed all around them all the same, and Henry did not blame the three _Terrors_ for deciding the wilderness was a better prospect than walking eight hundred miles just to get onto another cramped ship.

Believe it or not (well, you rather have to, as it is the truth) there was an awful bout of sea sickness during the first week sailing. Three years of stillness and dry land was unheard of for nearly all of them, and the effect it had on once seasoned sea legs had been alarming.

Henry had not been immune to it, having to move into a hammock like a midshipman so the rolling of the ship did not keep him awake half the night. James was fine, of course, he would never be so graceless as to have seasickness, and he and Crozier strolled about the weather deck and ate meals as if they were on the dryest of land.

Home brought a stifling, airless summer, poking doctors and relations who had come all the way from Canada to weep over him when they thought him lost. There was also an awful to-do in the newspapers about provisions and the fate of Sir John alongside reports of Crozier’s bravery and how dashing James was. All things Henry kept away from by hiding down in Devon, letting James and Crozier weather it all together up in London, receiving all the praise they deserved for saving the lives that they did.

"I missed you terribly you know," James said one dry afternoon as they strolled through the slowly turning landscape, autumn burnishing bronze the lush greenery that Henry had found rather alarming for the first month he had been home. "I had you at my side for so long, I imagine it feels rather like losing an arm to not have you there now."

"Thought you’d rather tire of me.”

“Nonsense.”

“And you deal with these things so well, rather thought I would keep out of the way. Hated to Nelson you, old boy," Henry grinned, squeezing James' arm that was slipped through his. 

“That was appalling, Dundy.”

“I am sure the man would not mind.”

“You have no decorum.”

“Insult my honour would you? Pistols at dawn, I say!”

James laughed, swooshing his cane lightly through the air to disturb the grass at the edge of the path. “I missed you in the London summer season - although I am glad to escape all that society and come visit you.”

“You go to Brighton often enough, I notice the post marks.”

“Brighton is still society,” James said without missing a beat, ignoring the haughty face Henry pulled. “And Francis was glad of the excuse to stay with the Ross’.” They were renting rooms together, of course, and Henry nodded smartly for want of any other reaction. It was such a neat set up, two valiant captains at one address, being received at palaces and fine houses, and Henry would rather have the excuse of physical distance than have to miss a man who lived a house, a floor, or even a room away as he was swallowed up by all the gilded glory England had to offer him, “ - I appeared on a frightful amount of dance cards you know. I needed your dashing presence to ease the load.”

“We do dance a rather fine polka together, do we not.”

“We do! A loss to society,” James proclaimed. He was still rather thin, and had looked worryingly sallow and drawn when he had stepped off the train from London, which had caused Henry to worry greatly about the adverse affect all of that glory was having on his health. A few days of rest in the sedate country air had put some warmth back in his complexion, and the undemanding company of Henry's family had eased the tightness in his manner that had become rather set in place after so long surrounded by those great and good.

They strolled a little while in companiable silence, enjoying the pleasure of walking without purpose or dire need, and without the shared weight of a boat pressing into one’s shoulder. Well, maybe not without purpose, as Henry lead them along this path and through that kissing gate (where James swept off his top hat to kiss Henry) and over a stile (that Henry took James by the waist to help him down from, and was rewarded with another kiss) until they were strolling in the cool shadow of an old, weathered brick wall. 

“A moment, James,” Henry said, letting go of James’ arm to step off the path. 

James looked up at the wall, then either way down the path, then raised an eyebrow at Henry. “Good lord Dundy, against a wall?”

Henry raised his eyebrows back at James, dropping his hat onto the grass. “My plan is far more roguish. Boost me up.”

“What on earth for?”

“This is a pear orchard, don’t ya know.”

“A…” James looked up at the treetops just visible above the wall, an expression of such delight dawning on his face that for a moment Henry could only grin at him. “You cannot just steal them, Henry.”

“What do you think I was sent to sea for?”

James smiled, wide and crooked and lovely even with his missing teeth, and took one long stride toward him, running his hand down Henry’s arm to grasp the cuff of his coat. “You are a rogue and a rascal, and I would be remiss as a captain to not insist you come back to London where I can keep an eye on you.”

It was impractical, and risky, and goodness knows what Crozier might think of Henry turning up, but James was crowding him back against the brick wall, his mouth soft against his cheek, and he had always been rather hopeless when it came to James.

“Of course, Jas. If you want me there, I shall come. By land or by sea,” he grinned, wrapping his arms around James as he was kissed softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's it folks. Dundy has been DONE-dy
> 
> ....
> 
> Sorry, I'll show myself out.


End file.
